


worthy of putting in rhyme

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Comedy, Dedicated Mongoosery, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: It would’ve been wildly unbecoming of a man of James’s station to make to snatch the poem out of Jopson’s hand, like a petulant child denied a favorite toy. Not to mention he had a strong suspicion Jopson could make the thing disappear like a stage magician if he so much as tried.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 35
Kudos: 67
Collections: Fingerbang #2





	worthy of putting in rhyme

Edward was the last one out of the Great Cabin, saving James, who waved a hand at him as he left. “I won’t be needing an escort back. The weather seems to have cleared,” he said to the lieutenant, who nodded with some measure of relief, as he always did when delivered from some responsibility or other. 

It was odd to be conducting business in a room with a closed door in it, beyond which they all knew their captain to be lying febrile and insensate. But a complication with Blanky’s leg had prevented a trip over the ice and so today’s meeting to plan for the Carnivale had by necessity taken place on _Terror._

Alone now, James found a blank leaf of loose paper and positioned his pen above it, meaning to sketch out a plan of the tent’s grand layout and design as had been decided on by the committee, to leave with _Terror_ ’s carpenter before he headed back. 

But his mind was elsewhere, and what came out onto the page was nothing useful at all.

With a sigh, he stood, walked over to the seat of ease, wadding up the paper as he went, and proceeded to chuck it down inside.

There was a soft clearing of the throat behind him and James turned to see Jopson, carrying a water basin balanced on an empty tray, emerge from Francis’s room. James quickly let the seat fall back into place; Jopson surely would assume he’d been making use of it in the usual way.

“Captain Fitzjames,” Jopson said, nodding politely. “He’s awake, if you’d like to step in…?” 

This was not the first time this week Jopson had insinuated that Francis would welcome James’s company during his convalescence. Some odd fancy of the steward’s— James couldn’t understand it. 

“No, thank you,” James said, as he always did, straightening up and tugging at his waistcoat. “I’ll be heading back to _Erebus_ directly. Wouldn’t want to disturb him.” 

Was it just the light, or did Jopson’s unsettling eyes flick towards the seat of ease, aglow with suspicion? 

***

The next morning James made the hike back to _Terror_ again, to evaluate the fitness of the ship’s spare sails as construction materials for the celebrations. 

“Captain Fitzjames,” Jopson said, appearing just as James had laid his coat on a chair in the Great Cabin, and was about to head down to the hold. “Would you care to pay Captain Crozier a visit?” 

Not this again. “I really don’t think that’s wise.”

“He asks after you, sir.” 

“I— he does?” James could hardly give credence to it.

“Well, not in so many words. But I can tell his meaning just fine. I believe you’d be a great comfort.” 

James shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I— you must be mistaken. I’ll see him when he’s well again, Jopson.” 

There was a pause, and then Jopson reached inside his jacket and produced a horribly familiar piece of crumpled paper. He unfolded it, cleared his throat, and read, with surprising feeling:

_“Brave Captain Crozier aboard his ship Terror  
_ _Was right all along, he foresaw our great error.  
_ _Two winters iced in, only cold, wind, and snow,  
_ _If we’d gone for broke we’d be home long ago!_

 _I thought him so humorless, gloomy and dour,  
_ _But all of this time, it seems I too was sour.  
_ _For our present mess there are many to blame;  
_ _But history will surely find Francis acclaimed._

 _He’ll rise up from ash like a phoenix reborn,  
_ _Assemble the men, lead them out towards the dawn._  
 _I’ll put all of my trust in his heart and his mind,  
And follow him on, making up for lost time.” _

James swallowed, hard. 

“One of the men on duty found it this morning, sir. Lying a few feet away from the hole… drifted on the wind, perhaps.” 

With fervor, James silently cursed himself. He really ought to have disposed of the damned thing on _Erebus,_ or shoved it deep into a pocket…. 

“I was going to read it to him myself, sir,” Jopson went on, cruelly casual. “To lift his spirits.” 

It would’ve been wildly unbecoming of a man of James’s station to make to snatch the poem out of Jopson’s hand, like a petulant child denied a favorite toy. Not to mention he had a strong suspicion Jopson could make the thing disappear like a stage magician if he so much as tried.

“You wouldn’t— Mr. Jopson, that paper is— sheer _drivel—_ ” Jopson raised an eyebrow, but didn’t disagree. James persisted: “You— you can’t inflict it on him. In his condition, I mean—” 

“I wouldn’t have to, sir, if you’d be so kind as to step inside his berth…” 

Ah, so this was his game: blackmail. James gave Jopson a glare that he hoped disguised the turmoil rising within him. How to tell this mongoose of a man that yes, he wanted desperately to see Francis— had since he’d taken to his bed— yet knew with bitter certainty his appearance would likely do more harm than good. Surely Jopson must be mistaken about Francis’s desires. The captain was not in his right mind, after all. 

James looked at the scrap still held primly in Jopson’s hand, and knew very well he had no choice. 

He put a hand to his head and sighed. “Alright,” he said, at length, and let himself be led to the door of Francis’s room.

It was dark inside. James couldn’t reconcile the lumpy silhouette on the bunk with the sturdy shape of the Captain he knew— until a voice rang out, weak but familiar.

“James… is that you?” 

“Yes, Francis. I’m here...”

***

**Author's Note:**

> The historical James Fitzjames was, indeed, an amateur poet. I've done my best to ape his style, based off of the extant work we have, AKA his 10,000 word epic ode of the Opium War. [You can read it here](http://hangingfire.net/2019/03/the-voyage-of-h-m-s-cornwallis/) but fair warning it is... not good. At all. Oh, Jimmy. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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